For Patria
by France1832
Summary: It begins with a dream that Enjolras has. He awakes from this dream to find himself in the middle of the final battle.


Enjolras was returning to his apartment from a meeting at the Musain. He walked with his head a little lower than usual and with a slower stride. He was feeling very discouraged after a very unsuccessful meeting.

The trouble had started when Joly had been sneezed on by Bahorel - who had just exclaimed that he had the flu. Joly had been horrified and said that he was starting to feel ill already. Bossuet tried to calm him down, but Combeferre needed his help with something. Courfeyrac and Feuilly were busy discussing lovers, and at an attempt of bringing everyone back, Enjolras said that his only love was Patria. Grantaire, who was of course completely drunk, started to ask what she looked like. Everyone had snorted and laughed and spent the remaining time making up what she must look like and coming up with these ridiculous love stories between Enjolras and his Patria. Combeferre had eventually put a stop to it, but by then Enjolras had retreated. There was little hope of getting something done that night.

As Enjolras walked past the Seine, he heard someone breathing behind him. He turned, expecting to see Combeferre or someone searching for him to apologize, but instead found a woman. The woman looking at him was almost as tall as he was, thin and frail looking, and wearing rags. Her rags were strange though. The ragged dress she wore was white, and the sash around her waist was blue and the shawl around her shoulders was crimson. How had this poor woman acquired such beautifully colored clothes? The other strange thing about her appearance was the way she looked into his eyes. It was a noble look, but also loving. Who was she?

"Enjolras," the woman spoke in a voice so familiar.

"Who are you, madam?" Enjolras asked respectfully.

"I am France." The woman explained. Enjolras immediately fell to his knees before her and bowed his head solemnly.

"Rise, defender of the oppressed." Enjolras obeyed and stood silently before her.

"My lady, France I -" Enjolras' words were silenced by a kiss. He stood still in shock for a moment, but finally returned the kiss from his country, his only love.

"Continue to fight well, my love."

Enjolras opened his eyes and took in a sharp breath. He saw a blood-stained face looking down at him and could hear cannons and screams of the dying.

"What happened?" He sat up and surveyed the room. It almost instantly clicked. He had had a dream - or a vision. Enjolras was sitting on a mattress in the Cafe Musain behind the barricade.

"You were fighting and giving orders when you got hit in the head with flying Debree. We brought you back in here, but you weren't breathing! We thought you were dead!" Joly explained and wrapped his arms tightly around Enjolras. Enjolras appreciated the gesture and knew how worried his friends must have been, but there was no time for this. As gently, but firmly as he could, Enjolras pushed Joly away from him and stood up.

"I'm fine. Tell me what's happened."

"The soldiers are being held back, but they won't be much longer." Combeferre answered from Enjolras' left. Enjolras nodded and picked up his fallen gun before walking outside again. The warm sun bothered his eyes, but he continued forward. A cannon blast near him sent shrapnel everywhere, and Enjolras fell to the ground. He quickly stood again and hadn't lost his focus or his god-like stance.

"Courfeyrac, Joly, and Lesgle! Fill the gap over there!" He ordered and continued to where another gap was. The cries of boys wounded and dying quickly filled Enjolras' ears, but he had been born for battle, and he pressed forward as if unaffected. He shot a soldier that was about to stab Marius.

"Marius, hold off the far end!" Enjolras shouted above the cacophony around them. Marius nodded and dashed in the direction Enjolras had assigned. A cry of pain was heard from his left and he turned to see Joly fall to the ground dying quickly. Lesgle and Courfeyrac quickly fall owed - one shot in the head and the other in the chest. Enjolras avenged his friends and shot the soldier who had done it.

"Enjolras!" Feuilly called and jumped in front of Eniolras. A shot rang out, and Feuilly fell backwards into Eniolras' arms. Enjolras caught the wonderful man and looked into his eyes.

"Vive la France!" He whispered and smiled before going limp. Enjolras gently lay him down and felt a weight upon his shoulders. More cries were heard, and more guns were fired. A young man fell atop the barricade close by. Combeferre grabbed the wounded man and the man gave out a cry in agony. Enjolras shot a few soldiers before a cannon blast mdo him lose balance and fall to his knees. A terrible cry of pain came close by and he turned. As he turned his heart was pained, but not surprised. It was Combeferre. A soldier had stabbed him with a bayonet and was now about to stab him again. Enjolras was about to shoot the man, but was distracted by a sudden pain in his arm. A bullet had sized by and scraped it, but it was barely bleeding. Enjolras turned back to Combeferre, but it was too late. Combeferre lay dead on the ground. His lifeless eyes were staring up at the beautifully blue sky. Enjolras jumped down from where he stood on the barricade and knelt on the bloody cobblestone by his fallen friend.

"Combeferre." He said sadly. But without shedding a tear. He closed his friend's eyes and then looked up. "Into the cafe!" He ordered the remainder of his men. As he spoke, he stood and began to walk brusquely into the cafe. Five ment followed him.

"Barricade the door!" One shouted. They pushed against the door and were about to prop a chair in front of it when it caved. The six men ran to the stairway and pulled each other up.. A man fell, then another, a third, a fourth, and in a minute, Enjolras was the last standing. He stood alone in the middle of the room.

"He's the one! He's the leader!" A soldier shouted as Enjolras was looked upon them with flaming eyes - defiant eyes.

"Shoot me!" He replied, as if giving an order and threw his broken weapon across the floor.

"Ready, aim...fire!" The order came.

A loud crack, and Enjolras felt the bullets pierce him and fell to the floor in a heap. The sound of the footsteps faded away until the only thing left was the sound of far away screams, and the sound of his own ragged breathing.

"Enjolras!" A voice cried. Soon arms were turning him over and gingerly supporting him. Enjolras looked at the man and saw it was Grantaire. He wasn't especially excited to die in the drunkards arms. This cowardly man had taken refuge in this room and hid away from everything with a bottle in his hand. Enjolras looked coldly up at the man, but was surprised. Tears were in the cynic's eyes.

"Enjolras, You're not dead! I thought maybe you were..."

"What are you doing?" Enjolras asked a little harshly and then jerked a little. Blood was flowing onto the cynic' light trousers and white shirt and green vest.

"I...I..." Grantaire didn't know what to say it seemed.

Enjolras glowered at the man holding him. "You...didn't even fight, you coward! You didn't...help your friends, your country, or your people!"

" I know." Grantaire replied and Enjolras thought he felt a teardrop fall onto his pale cheek. "But I would have died with you if only I had woken up sooner." He whispered and began to sob. Enjolras didn't know what to feel, but he was beginning to feel weak. He jerked again and cried out softly as another burst of pain came.

"Shh, you're going to be ok!" Grantaire murmured and stroked Enjolras' hair softly. Enjolras was beginning to become drowsy. He let his head fall onto Grantaire's shoulder. It was too much energy to keep it up.

"I'm dying you fool." Enjolras said more gently. It was almost a term of endearment.

"No, no, no,no you're not. My angel, my Apollo, you're going to be fine. You can't die." Grantaire attempted to argue as he continued to stroke Enjolras' hair.

"M...my name is...Enjolras." Enjolras reminded and shuddered as the blood began to flow across the floor and drip through the cracks. He knew he was dying and he didn't mind. In fact, this was what he wanted. "Grantaire," he said quietly. He needed some questions answered. "Why did you come? Why did you attend the meetings when...you didn't believe?" He shuddered again more violently and felt Grantaire's grip on him grow tighter as if the cynic's arms could hold Eniolras - his Apollo - to life.

"I told you. I believe in you." Grantaire replied as another tear fell onto Eniolras' dirty face. What little Colour was usually there had been drained, and it was a terrifying sight to see Enjolras in death's grip. Enjolras jerked again and gripped Grantaire's arm.

"G-Grantaire!" He couldn't help but yelp as the pain increased.

"What is it?" Grantaire asked quietly. Enjolras took one of Grantaire's hands and smiles slightly. Grantaire smiled back and looked into the intense fiery cold blue eyes. Enjolras slowly brought their clasped hands to his chest.

"Patria." He whispered, staring up at the ceiling, and went limp.

His blood was covering the cynic. Grantaire cradled the dead Greek god in his arms, the colours of Grantaire and Enjolras having finally come together in the moment of death. Grantaire looked down at his hero - the only thing he had ever believed in, the only thing that mattered. Enjolras had been all there was to hold onto, and now he was gone. Grantaire sobbed more freely and choked on his own tears.

"Enjolras," he whispered. "Take me with you."

He grabbed a knife.


End file.
